


To Skin A Cat

by RageSeptember



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: AU, Jim is a sly bastard, M/M, Sherlock is jealous, The Great Game, threesomes solve everything
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-01-15
Updated: 2013-01-15
Packaged: 2017-11-25 15:06:22
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,148
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/640135
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/RageSeptember/pseuds/RageSeptember
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock doesn’t realize he’s in love with John until the army doctor starts seeing a man named Jim.</p>
            </blockquote>





	To Skin A Cat

**Author's Note:**

> This was a prompt filled for the lovely thepuppetplayer over at tumblr.

Sherlock never tells John of the four hours he spends waiting for Moriarty to appear at the pool where Carl Powers died, or of the burning disappointment he feels when the criminal mastermind doesn't show up. He quietly returns the missile plans to Mycroft, and waits for Moriarty to make his next move. 

But the days come and go, become weeks, a month, and nothing happens. Nothing – except that John starts spending the evenings and then the nights away from 221B Baker Street. The doctor wears cologne, new shirts and carefully brushed shoes, and it doesn’t take the world’s only consulting detective to figure out what is going on. (Though Sherlock is likely the only one able to deduce that John is seeing a man rather than a woman simply from the way the doctor’s trousers are creased when he eventually returns to the flat.)

John doesn’t talk of said man ( _much_ ), doesn’t try to introduce him ( _thank God_!) and doesn’t bring him home.

Until he _does_ , and Sherlock wanders down into the kitchen one sunny June morning to find a stranger dubiously eyeing the kettle (the problem, presumably, is not with the kettle but with the small jars containing various highly promising experiments surrounding it). The stranger is wearing only a pair of bright blue boxers and when he turns he turns out to be not so strange after all. “Ah,” Sherlock says, his annoyance momentarily mitigated by the familiar but ever so pleasant satisfaction of being _right_. “So we _are_ gay.” 

Jim from IT smiles uncertainly, eyes meeting Sherlock’s for only a fraction of a second. There is _something_ in those dark eyes, Sherlock has time to think, something not quite right, but then Jim is looking away and gesturing towards the kettle. “I was, ah, just making tea. John’s in the shower. Would you… like some?”

“How very kind of you to offer me some of my own tea.” Sherlock doesn’t bother to try and disguise the hostility in his voice, because really, why should he? This man is an intruder, a short, pale intruder who could do with some exercise, all those days sitting on his skinny arse in front of a computer screen doing nothing for his physique, and yes, perhaps he _is_ pretty, but so ordinary, so dull, so much less than what John deserves.

“Right. Yeah. Uh… “ Ah, but it is painful ( _gratifying in the extreme_ ) to see him stumble for words, so awkward and aware of his own semi-nudity under Sherlock’s unwavering stare.

“Jim, where did you – Oh, hello, Sherlock.” John is in his morning robe, barefoot, eyes wandering from Sherlock to Jim and back again, and Sherlock can’t decipher the look on his face. Not quite embarrassment, not quite apprehension, not quite… anticipation? Sherlock cocks his head to the side, opens his mouth, but then Jim is walking past him, pausing briefly in front of John. “I better be off,” he mumbles against the side of the doctor’s face, hand brushing over his arm in an almost shy caress. 

John touches his hand briefly and something passes between them, something unspoken and private that makes Sherlock’s teeth ache. “Yeah, okay,” John murmurs. “I’ll call you.” 

Before he leaves, Jim turns to give the consulting detective a fleeting glance, and again, a sudden sense of vertigo, the world slipping out of focus and _shifting_ , a flash of something else, other, sharp, in eyes that for a moment appear to be not at all the eyes of a timid IT geek - 

Jim is out the door, and there is John standing in front of him, arms crossed over his chest and obviously waiting for whatever comments his flat-mate might have to offer. 

Sherlock is loath to disappoint. “Does Molly know?” he asks. “Or would it be _unkind_ to tell her?” 

John sets his jaw. “ _She_ broke up with _him_ after you… “ He pauses, takes a deep breath. “We ran into each other over at Bart’s. We went for a beer. We… hit it off.” 

Sherlock’s smile is no smile at all. “And now you’re having sleepovers.” 

“And now we’re seeing each other. Yes. Problem?” 

“None whatsoever.” Sherlock stalks out of the kitchen and throws himself down in his armchair. He doesn’t move until John is dressed and has left for work. 

—- 

 _This_ time Sherlock will not be surprised when he finds Jim in the kitchen in the morning. He is _extremely_ aware of the dark-haired little git’s presence, thank you very much. Hard not to be, when he’s making such noises, whimpering and moaning and calling John’s name again and again and again. 

So loud, for one so small. Up the stairs and with the door closed, still the sounds penetrate, and it is all Sherlock can do not to storm into John’s room and tell them to kindly keep it the hell down, people are trying to sleep. He goes into the sitting room instead, reaching for his violin. Mrs. Hudson will be livid in the morning, but at least the music is enough to drown out the _other_ noise. 

He plays for an hour, two, and when he stops it is quiet and he falls asleep in his armchair because the bed would feel too big and cold and empty. 

—- 

When he wakes it is to the sight of John standing in the doorway, eyebrows raised. Naked. “Did you sleep in the chair?” 

Sherlock sits up a bit straighter. “You’re not wearing any clothes.” 

“Yeah, I’m aware.” John steps into the room. “You did, didn’t you?” 

Sherlock has risen from the chair and is adjusting his dressing gown. “ _Why_ aren’t you wearing any clothes?” It is a perfectly legitimate question, as John doesn’t usually saunter around the flat buck-naked. Besides, while Sherlock normally has no qualms about – eloquently and at length – voicing his complaints over the other’s more annoying habits, he is not about to mention the _disturbance_ last night. 

Pride might be an irrational driving force, but it is a strong one. 

John doesn’t answer. He is advancing on Sherlock – _he really is very, very naked, and was his hips always this_ noticeable _, not that Sherlock has been checking them out, but so what if he had, he’s a consulting detective and a genius, he checks everything out, notices things, it’s his damn job after all_ -  and there is a purpose to his stride, a look of burning concentration on his face, and _what_ – 

Sherlock’s initial reaction when John puts his hands behind the consulting detective’s neck is to shy away, but he doesn’t, and when John pulls his head down, he doesn’t resist. The kiss is hard; determined; rough almost. 

At first, Sherlock is too surprised to do anything but stand there, but then instinct and desire kicks in and he responds eagerly, putting his own hands on John’s hips – those gorgeous, _noticeable_ hips - 

He is unpleasantly distracted from his exploration of John’s lips and tongue and teeth by a small chuckle. Startled, Sherlock pulls back, looks up and starts again when he sees Jim leaning against the doorframe. He is as naked as John, and seems entirely too amused for someone who has just caught his boyfriend kissing another man. No, not amused; _smug_. “Don’t stop on my account,” he says daintily. “ _Quite_ the entertaining show. Bit clumsy, but I’m sure that can be improved upon.” He glances at John. “Told you so,” he calls in a sing-song voice. 

The doctor doesn’t turn to look at him, and the expression on his face is one Sherlock knows well; a small resigned smile tinged with annoyance. “Yeah, well. Could have given me a few minutes more before you decided to butt in,” he notes. 

Jim laughs, and slowly walks over to them, swaying his hips in absurdly exaggerated way. “Oh, no. I couldn’t possibly let you have all that fun without me.” 

 _‘Without me - ?’_ Sherlock stares at the man as he approaches. He feels thrown off balance, feels as if he’s missing something glaringly _obvious_ , and he does not appreciate the feeling, not at all. “I have no interest in _you_ ,” he says flatly as Jim stops just next to him.

“But you _do_.” There is a strange glitter in Jim’s eyes, a crooked smile in his voice, and this is not the man from the lab at S:t Bart’s, not the man from the kitchen a few days ago. 

“Who are you?” Sherlock demands and the smile in the stranger’s voice is on his face now, growing wider, a cat’s lazy, self-indulgent, hungry smile, and Sherlock _knows_ then, knows before the man open his mouth to speak: “Jim Moriarty. _Hi_.” 

Sherlock looks to John, but John doesn’t move a muscle; not news to him then. “’Ran into each other at Bart’s’… “ Sherlock’s smile is entirely devoid of mirth and sardonic in the extreme. “Ha!” 

John shrugs, looking a little guilty, a little embarrassed, but not, Sherlock notes, repentant. “He approached me. Told me that he knew about… “ A pause, as John looks away, cheeks slightly flushed. “… about my _feelings_ for you. He told me he could fix it for me.” He looks back to Sherlock, still blushing but with unflinching eyes. “And he did.” 

Sherlock raises an eyebrow. “I see. So this entire relationship of yours was merely a fiction created to… rouse me to jealousy?” Should he feel flattered? Insulted? Touched? Betrayed? He settles for a mix of all four. “What do _you_ get out of this?” he demands of Jim, who has followed the exchange with undisguised interest and a leer. It seems an odd game for a criminal mastermind to play, especially since the man has displayed a taste for games of a far more explosive nature in the past. 

Jim tilts his head to the side.  “I get you,” he says simply. “And of course I had _quite_ a bit of fun playing with Johnny here.” He reaches out to run a hand down the doctor’s arm, and as John leans into the touch Sherlock realizes that even though whatever it is that these two share started out as a ruse, it has grown into something else, something more and real. 

“He kills people.” Directed at John, and it is a question in the guise of a statement. Sherlock doesn’t care – much – but he knows that John is quite concerned about that sort of thing. _Usually._  

“Ah. Yes. Uh… We came to an agreement.” There’s a strain in John’s voice, saying that he is not completely satisfied with this agreement, but he still doesn’t pull away from Jim’s hand, saying that he’ll abide by it all the same. “He’ll refrain from killing innocents as long as… as we keep him entertained.” 

“That’s right,” Jim chirps. “By fucking me you’re doing the public a greater service than big brother Mycroft ever could.” He smiles, shark like. “Oh, if he only knew, he’d be so very cross… “ 

“I’m not my brother,” Sherlock says coldly. “I don’t _care_ about the public, so if that’s the only reason for me to fuck you – “ 

“It’s _not_ ,” Jim tells him, voice suddenly hard, dark eyes narrowing momentarily. “I know you get bored, Sherlock,” he murmurs, taking a small step forward, leaving only a meager inch between his naked chest and Sherlock’s clothed. “But not with me you won’t.” And Sherlock knows that Jim is right, that whatever else the man might be – evil, twisted, madman – he will never be _boring_ , and so the detective doesn’t flinch from the kiss. 

Jim’s lips are soft, but his teeth sharp, and this is so very different from kissing John… _John_. Sherlock raises his gaze, and meets the doctor’s eyes. He is not grinning, not like Jim was, but he doesn’t seem displeased either. He gives an almost imperceptible nod, and Sherlock turns his attention back to the kiss, feeling himself grow hard, and knowing that Jim can feel it too. 

“ _There_ ,” the shorter man breathes as he eventually pulls away. The look on his face… It makes Sherlock’s heart – the one he could have sworn he did not have – twinge, but then it is gone, the fleeting vulnerability replaced by a small smirk that Sherlock has already begun to think of the criminal’s trademark expression. “I knew you’d get it,” Jim purrs, taking a step back and reaching for John’s hand. “What do you say, Johnny boy? Should we take him upstairs and show him all the neat little tricks we’ve been practicing for the last few weeks?” 

“Sounds good to me.” John’s voice is surprisingly even, Sherlock thinks, considering the rather impressive erection he is sporting. 

He looks at them, the two men in front of him, so very different, light and dark, worlds apart, joined together by their clasped hands, holding their free ones out for Sherlock to take. 

After a very brief moment of consideration he does.


End file.
